“And when it doesn’t work out,” I said with a sigh, “I’ll flake out on finals.” Lydia had to remember me after Alan. Had to remember Ben Somebody and how she practically had to coax me down from the ledge last spring. “I can’t risk it right now. I have too much on my plate.”

“How do you know it won’t work out?”

“It never has before.” I shrugged. “Besides, you know me. I always do something to—screw it up.” I just never knew what that was.

There was a knock on the door, and Brandon popped his head in. “You guys just missed a truly phenomenal scene.”

Lydia and I laughed. “Careful with these chick flicks, Brandon,” she said, “or your White Male Sexuality in America thingy will have more than amaretto sours to worry about.”

He smiled. “Okay. In truth, I was hoping you were doing some sort of girls-in-underwear pillow fight. Hollywood led me to believe that college was crawling with quasi-lesbian bedding battles, but I’ve had my eyes peeled for three years and I’m still waiting.”

That was more like a straight male.

“You’re looking in the wrong places,” I said without thinking. “You have to get tapped into the Society of Duvet & Sham.”

“Is that who tapped you the other night?” he rejoined.

I hesitated just a fraction of a second too long before blurting out a lame, “No.”

Uh-oh. Why did I have to open my big mouth? Did I have societies on the brain or something? Why didn’t I just laugh and say, “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to smother you”?

Brandon was waiting, Lydia was shaking her head, and I fingered the pin in my belt loop for moral support.

“Um, movie?” I suggested, pushing past him and back into the less complicated common room.

But my issues merely followed me there, then promptly erupted.

“Seriously, Haskel,” Brandon continued. “Is that where you’ve been all weekend? I wondered why you weren’t at your usual post at the Lit Mag office this morning.”

Lydia lost her grip on the bottle of vodka. It thumped once on the corner of the table and toppled to the floor with a seventeen-dollar-and-ninety-five-cent crash.

Crap. Crap crap crappity crap.

I snatched up a pile of Domino’s Pizza napkins from the top of the mini-fridge and tossed them onto the spill. The acrid scent of sublimating alcohol instantly blended with Lydia’s pine-fresh cleaning efforts from this afternoon. She wasn’t moving to help me and her mouth was set in a tight line, but whether she was angrier about my lie or the loss of her vodka was difficult to ascertain.

And then she snorted, mumbled “I knew it!” under her breath, and stomped back into her bedroom.

Yeah, probably angriest at the betrayal. (But maybe she’d get more paper towels.)

This wasn’t going to work. We could make up don’t-ask-don’t-tell ground rules about discussing our respective societies in the suite, but in the process, we’d be leaving out huge chunks of our lives. I’d told her I was at Brandon’s because it was easier than invoking the society brush-off. I didn’t want her to think I was lording my Rose & Grave status over her, since society prestige had always mattered more to Lydia than to me. And then, when we agreed not to talk about it, there seemed no point in saying, “You know how I said I was at Brandon’s? Well, I wasn’t, but I’m not allowed to talk about that.”

But maybe I should have. It would have been awkward, but at least it wasn’t a lie. How many more lies would we have to tell each other, just to keep to our society oaths? The Connubial Bliss reports seemed like a tell-all to our fellow knights. They may be great ideas for some of them, but I already had my tell-all audience, and she wasn’t a Digger.

I wondered what kind of promises Lydia had made about her own loyalties. I wondered what lies she had already planned.

Brandon joined me on the floor and began picking up the largest chunks of glass. “What’s the story here, babe?”

Babe. Like I was his girlfriend, and we exchanged endearments all the time. Those brown, puppy-dog eyes of his were searching mine in earnest now.

“Nothing.” I tugged down on the hem of my shirt. “I…can’t talk about it.”

“Not even to me?”

Not to my mom, not to Lydia, not to the boy I was sleeping with…“Not to anyone.”

“That’s silly. My freshman counselor—he was in Book & Key and he had it on his resume, plain as day. And Glenda told us both when she got into Quill & Ink. You can say if you want.”

“That’s Quill & Ink.” How would I know what the rules were elsewhere? I wasn’t even totally clear on mine yet. I just remembered the words of my oath. I had most solemnly avowed never to reveal, by commission or by omission, the existence of, the knowledge considered sacred by, or the names of the membership of the Order of Rose & Grave. Pretty much left out resumes.

He paused. “But…you are in a secret society.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“That means you are, otherwise you’d just say no.”

“That’s not true!” I pushed back on my heels and wadded the soaked napkins into a ball.

“Yes it is. Watch: Ask me.” He folded his hands.

I sighed. “Brandon, are you in a secret society?”

“No.” He grinned. “See?”

I rolled my eyes.

He took the napkin out of my hands and lobbed it into the trash can. Three points. “Now watch this: Amy, are you in a secret society?”

Just say no.

It shouldn’t have been that hard. But I didn’t, because the truth of the matter, as I now realize, was that our pat little phrases, our I can’t talk about its and our I’d tell you but I’d have to kill yous are a society member’s way of bragging without breaking the oath of secrecy. I was proud that I was one of the first women ever to be tapped into Rose & Grave. I was bursting at the seams to tell all my friends—only, I wasn’t allowed to.

In short, saying “no” meant dismissing it, but saying “I’m not allowed to talk about it” meant…

Nyah, nyah, I know something you don’t know!

Only, did that count as omission?

Brandon held out his hands as if in presentation. “See?”

I stood up and said coolly, “Don’t be ridiculous.” On-screen, Bridget was making a fool of herself over something or other, but I’d lost my taste for her antics. Movie Night was over.

And Brandon and I were left alone. We continued cleaning up the mess, and then Brandon said, “You know, Amy, it’s okay if you are. I know all that stuff I said the other night might lead you to believe that I disapprove of societies, but if you want to be in one, I won’t be unhappy.”

“So glad you approve,” I snapped. “I don’t need your permission to do something, Weare. Not even if we were dating.”

The contrary-to-fact construction cut him right to the bone. “No.” He threw the last wad of towels into the trash and rubbed his hands together with finality. “Though I’d hoped you’d solicit my opinion.” He took one last look at the TV screen. “I think I’m going to take off.”

No, Brandon, don’t. But I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t go over and touch him on the shoulder and turn my face to his and kiss him. Though I should have. Because he’d always been really great to me, and because Lydia was right, I owed him a definition.

And maybe an apology. “Brandon,” I began, but got no further, as there was a knock on the door.

Brandon, being the closest, opened it, and there stood George Harrison Prescott in his many-zippered jacket. Unlike me, he’d given his Rose & Grave pin a place of honor amongst the zippers. The gold hexagon shone like a beacon in my eyes, but it might have blended in with the rest of the metal to someone who wasn’t looking for it.

“Hey, Amy!” he said brightly. “I’m glad I found you at home.” He looked from me to Brandon and back again, and obviously hadn’t gained admittance to Eli entirely on good looks and legacy. “Am I interrupting something?”